Tractability
by JealousOfTheMoon
Summary: One can only take so much of being compared to the sun and the moon, and Susan is at the end of her proverbial rope of diplomacy. Multi-chapter, GoldenAge.Trords!
1. In Which A Plan Is Needed

_After I wrote _Tradition,_ I had an idea for a few similar stories centred around words that began with the letters _'Tr.' _So this is a sort of continuation from that story, situated in the early Golden Age when they are still learning the speech of nobility, etc. and thus are able to slip out of it/even mock it more frequently and easily. In other words, they are still rather young. I always thought Susan would slip into the role more quickly than the others, so if anyone finds her diplomacy in this story unsuitable for her age this is my justification._

_So at any rate, if you see a story with the word _trords_ (words beginning with 'tr') in the description, it's part of this little universe. _

_The chapters will be rather short, but I have the whole thing finished.  
_

Tractability _is semi-synonymous to the word _gentle_ ... _

_

* * *

  
_

**1. In Which A Plan Is Needed  
**

Had anyone ventured down into the Cair gardens around the second hour past noon, the first thing they would probably hear was one voice lifted high in what its speaker supposed to be strong and passionate tones.

"Queen Susan, fair are you above all others—lovely as the moon and bright as the sun…" Thus the suitor had been rambling on for the last three-quarters of an hour.

In the meantime, this Gentle queen was making up for her lack of response by mentally rebuffing all of his admittedly poor attempts at wooing. Her favorite knife in cutting down love speeches was logic, and she employed it mercilessly in this instance. _'I cannot be both sun _and_ moon at once… and does he mean that the Sun cannot be lovely or the moon bright? And if I am fair above all others, why am I only equal to the moon and sun? Should I not be more than they? Blasted illogic!'_ thought Susan, smiling graciously and refraining from rubbing at her temples in a manner that suggested a sharp headache.

The rather puffy-looking suitor carried on his inanely amorous pleas, oblivious to his object of love's pain. "…you are fair as the moon and—er—magnanimous as the sun!"

Apparently, he was running about in a circle, or perhaps he was not of the creative sort. At any rate, he did _not_ know the meaning of magnanimous. Tired of hearing about the sun and the moon, "You've said that bit already!" Susan burst before she could stop herself. Then she smiled sweetly. _Diplomacy…diplomacy…_ "That is to say, pray continue, kind sir." She remarked with utmost serenity of countenance. '_Oaf!'_

"Well—I—" the man blustered a bit, having lost his train of idiotic thought. Perhaps he was not accustomed to interruptions. "Er—the moon—no, wait—"

'_Oh, seas…'_ Susan thought despairingly. _'How much more of this must—can—I take? No. This is not to be tolerated!' _

Thus drastic action became an absolute necessity, and this, dear readers, is the precise moment that the idea of a Plan first entered the eldest Queen of Narnia's mind.

* * *

_Next chapter: _In Which A Plan Is Formed


	2. In Which A Plan Is Formed

**2. In Which A Plan Is Formed**

Another day, another interview ended. The wretched suitor and his entourage of flattering weasel-like courtiers were to remain for at least another week until relations with the country were settled favorably. Susan rubbed her eyes tiredly and heaved a disgruntled sigh. _One more week…_

"Dearest sister," Lucy said, sounding a bit anxious. Really, this whole thing _was_ wearing on Susan terribly! She briefly placed a comforting hand on Susan's shoulder. "Will you not allow our noble brothers handle these suits—or at least be present so the painful dialogue may be spared your exhausted self?"

Susan let out an uncomely mixture of laugh and snort. "Our _noble_ brothers? Are you referring to the two that spent their first (and last) observation of one of these…wooing sessions…coughing into their hands and making unseemly remarks in low tones to each other so that I could not keep my countenance? Or perhaps you mean to tell me that I have brothers of genteel and noble manner who I have yet to meet, because thus far Peter and Edmund have been decidedly _unhelpful._" She paced the floor. "No, Lucy, I thank you for your concern, but I must bear this burden myself." As soon as the words were said she wished them back, chiding herself: '_"I must bear this burden myself"…?! Since when did you become so melodramatic, Susan? Now she shall only worry all the more!'_

A troubled look flitted over Lucy's young face. "Susan, you know I will help you wherever—"

"You already help me very well," Susan said fondly, "by sitting in and chaperoning these sessions." (Chaperones really weren't very necessary since the room was open and visible enough, but such was the excuse utilized to allow Susan some intelligent company.)

"Really, now, I'm sure Peter or Edmund could do just as well if you asked them seriously," Lucy defended her brothers staunchly.

"Pff!" Susan huffed. "Well, perhaps Peter might—but you've seen him at tea, practically falling asleep on his plate. I fear his lessons and training and such combined with handling diplomatic and domestic matters are wearying him too much already. He might snore in the midst of an impassioned speech, and they would surely sever all relations after _that_. And as for Edmund—Edmund!" she said with the air of one torn between amusement and affliction. "_You_ know Ed. If I asked him, he would be sure to place himself directly behind the suitor (intentionally) and mimick the idiot throughout the entire interview. Then I should be unable to look the lovestruck youth in the eye for fear of laughing, and he should be insulted just as much by that as by any laughter, and so the whole thing would end in ruination. No, Lucy," she said seriously, "I shall go so far as to hope that our brothers never have to hear what takes place here—I shudder to think what they would make of some of these expressions and mannerisms."

Lucy let out a nervous giggle, the quality of which Susan fortunately did not notice as she swept impressively from the room. (I say fortunately because if Susan had noted the nervous quality of that giggle, she would surely have questioned Lucy about it, and it would have come out that Edmund and Peter made a habit of eavesdropping on the various courtships whenever possible, and Edmund would re-enact them later to Peter and Lucy's great delight and amusement. Perhaps this was not entirely fair of them to have such fun at Susan's expense without her knowledge, but they were still young. In reality Susan would not have minded very much at all, and they knew that very well, but the secrecy made it all the more fun. Anyway, after all the laughing they would discuss how to minimize the frequency of these interviews, and how to come up with many convenient interruptions. "Susan! Our brother Edmund has been taken with a dreadful cold and refuses to see any but you!" was a favorite, and Edmund kept a small vial of pepper in his pocket for the sole purpose of instigating violent sneezing fits. Once during the stay of a particularly tenacious earl they arranged for the Talking Horses to pose as their horses and run away, thus necessitating a search. They met the horses at a pre-arranged place, and then camped out very comfortably for four or five days, returning to find the earl had lost some of his tenacity and was setting sail the next day.)

Meanwhile, Susan wearily climbed the stairs to her quarters, musing on the events of the day. They were attempting to settle some trade rights, and so—as Susan admitted bitterly to herself—she must do her best to placate their prince—or duke—or earl—or _whatever_ he was—until everything was settled favorably.

'_I've only got to hold out for another week,' _she thought in a miserable attempt at self-reassurance. _'Just one more week and then we can send them packing with the friendliest of 'No's.' _

And to reassure herself, she pulled out a piece of parchment and wrote in a rather shaky hand with quill and ink, **one more week.**

'_Surely you can last for that duration,' _she told herself stoically. '_And then…oh, blast and bother, then Lord Giron from one of those silly islands whose names I can't remember. But perhaps we can arrange everything with them within three or four days or so and he shall leave as well… and then Elmar of Galma will come, but his is merely of the courtship intent so he will be more easily gotten rid of with fewer consequences…' _

Therefore, she wrote down: **Giron –three days; Elmar – immediate refusal. **Struck by sudden inspiration she discarded that piece of parchment and rewrote the names with details as to status and title. She even wrote out a timeline of strategically selected events and actions to dupe the unwanted suitors.

When she had written all she could, she found it was still not enough. The suitors, she decided, must never suspect anything—it must be so carefully planned that no hint of a plan was visible. "I believe," she said aloud, "I must have more information—not only about these, but (if I am to be sane) I must plan far into the future. Surely there are records of neighboring countries and such somewhere around here." She chewed the tip of her quill contemplatively, and then announced to herself. "And I must speak to Peter's educators on necessary diplomatic courses of action—and that without further delay."

Susan threw down her quill and swept grandly out of the room. (She had taken rather well to impressively sweeping from room to room and was wont to do so at least twenty or thirty times each day.) One thing was certain: The suitors wouldn't know what was coming before it hit them, and even then they probably wouldn't realize something _was_ hitting them.

Exemplary of this was a foreign courtier lingering in a nearby hall and (by chance) watching her grand exit from her chambers. _'Ah, what a gem!' _he thought to himself. _'A suitable match for the Lord Duke's heir—meek, mild, with no deceit or malice aforethought, no doubt on her way to accomplish some womanly, household task… After all, she is not Queen Susan the Gentle for nothing!' _

Perhaps he would not have written to his Lord Duke and advised him to send the nobleman's heir with an offer of marriage to Cair Paravel with all speed had he known the truth: that the meek, mild, guileless, womanly, Gentle sovereign was on her way to plotting the deception and demise of scores of suitors.

That proved to be the chief brilliancy of The Plan: its stealthy, secret, and generally undetected nature. It would not last long.

* * *

_Next chapter: _In Which A Plan Is Apprehended


	3. In Which A Plan Is Apprehended

_I meant to have this up earlier, but I contracted stomach flu early this morning and have been out of commission (I listened to three sermons, started a very depressing story, went through an inordinate amount of old Beverly Hillbillies episodes, and then watched Prince Caspian for probably the third or fourth time in the last week and had a bout of inspiration which then was frustrating because I am not in a writing mood. At all. With the exception of aforementioned depressing, AU story which will probably never be seen by anyone). I feel a little better - mostly very lazy and not at all like going to bed early, which I am told is something of a help when one is sick. At any rate, I actually have a good excuse for not posting sooner (mark this date for the history books, people!). _

_I also took advantage of the holidays by devouring _The Magician's Nephew_ yesterday. Now I am quoting the bulldog's "I strongly object to that remark" at every possible opportunity for contrariety and if anyone says the word 'brandy' I immediately break out into giggles and start incoherently re-enacting/retelling that particular scene ("and then he lobs the honeycomb"...*snort*... yeah, not pretty.)_

_So anyway, I apologize if this chapter is not on top form or whatever, because I'm in no mood to edit or try to make it longer or more interesting. You shall have to make do with what is here. Next chapter, I hope, shall be better. This thing is looking up to be more like 5-6 chapter than 3-4, and not all of them are written anymore, but I think there shouldn't be any significant delay in completion. _

**3. In Which A Plan Is Apprehended**

Several days later, Edmund was waiting outside the doors to his elder sister's chambers when the lady in question rushed by muttering rapidly to herself. She hurried into her sitting room, banging the door behind and sparing not even a glance for her open-mouthed brother.

Having caught only the words "time period" and "diplomacy" and "stealth and secrecy" (combined with an appropriately evil snort of laughter) and "…quill…write down…before…forget…" …well, it is no odd matter that Edmund's curiosity was piqued. He wandered into Susan's sitting room to find her seated (a commonly assumed position in sitting rooms) at her desk. Her usually pristine locks were tumbling about haphazardly and there was ink spattered among the freckles on her face and arms.

"How now, Gentle sister?" he teased lightly. "One would not suspect so much toil of mind behind such a fair face!"

"Don't!" Susan ordered sharply. "And by _don't _I mean, cut the blasted jargon, Ed—I've had enough of honey-tongued suitors to _suit me_"—Edmund winced at the bad pun, though he doubted it was made intentionally—"for the rest of my life!"

"That is a part of this whole thing"—he gestured to the grand chambers about them—"that we didn't exactly expect," and Edmund's mouth quirked at the thought of the many amorous phrases that he and Peter had ingested over the last months by eavesdropping. "But you know that Peter and I are more than willing to handle them for you, dear Su," he added quickly, trying to recover some semblance of reassurance.

"Stop it!" cried she suddenly, causing Edmund to blink in surprise. "Tease me—laugh at me—poke me with sharp objects—draw hideous caricatures of me—commit this much and more still, and I shall thank you! But I beg of you, _no more endearments!"_ She pounded the desk before her for emphasis, a scowl of magnificent proportions written across her face.

"Alright, alright," Edmund said hastily, putting his hands up. Then a slightly wicked expression stole across his face—and by wicked I mean the sort that brothers (while they do not mean any harm) acquire when they sense a bit of fun. "I won't be endearing. Queen Susan," here he assumed a very bad impression of a foreign accent, "Pale Susan—so fair are you that when I think of you—I suffer conniptions! Ah!" the exclamation sounded like "ach" "Verily, I suffer conniptions when I think of your nose, radiant like the sun, it shines so with perspiration—and your freckles like the stars, so numerous!" He fell to one knee. "My Queen, my liver, my love!"

Susan let out a laugh in spite of herself. "That's not fair, Ed," she said, trying to sound reproving in the midst of her mirth. "Count Gustavan was uneducated and didn't know any better—and anyway he didn't say the bit about my nose and freckles (thank you very much for _that!_)—although he did, poor lad, accuse me of causing conniptions."

"He _would_ have said the rest," Edmund countered confidently, "Had you not excused yourself to deal with a headache. Speaking of which, I hear laughing 'till you're breathless does wonders for those. Have you ever tried it?"

"Hush," Susan frowned. "And—hang on a tic, I was entertaining the Count in private—only Lucy was there—how did _you_ come to quote him verbatim?" Edmund shrugged, put his hands in his pockets, and began whistling a merry, innocent tune. Susan let out a resigned sigh. "Oh, never mind."

"I wonder," Edmund continued, removing his hands from his pockets, "if your hand-contenders from the uneducated parts of the East would think it all a vast compliment if I said we were_ suffering conniptions in here because of them!"_ he raised his voice for the last part, and Susan slapped her hand over his mouth. "Ow!" he complained. Due to the position of her hand, it came out as "owwwmmph!"

"Keep your voice down," she hissed, removing her hand and leaving ink stains in its wake. He thought she was trying not to smirk. "One of their courtiers might be about, and do you want to start a war with all your mockery? At any rate, that is unkind."

"Very well, but I say, what _are_ you perspiring your fair—I mean pale—nose over?" He made a grab at the parchment, which Susan's quill had been hovering over for the last few minutes and drooling quite a puddle of ink onto the blank portion in the process (both she and Peter hadn't quite mastered the usage of a quill yet…and it annoyed them exceedingly that Edmund and Lucy _had_.) Susan made a move to stop him but missed by a few seconds. She settled for shaking ink all over his embroidered vest with a disgruntled sort of vengeance.

True to his nature as a boy, Edmund did not even comment on the ruination of his tunic and focused entirely on his prize. When his gaze returned to his sister, it was both awestruck and aghast.

"Susan," he said, reproof and admiration mingled in his tone, "what is the meaning of _this_?"

_Next chapter: _In Which A Plan Is Compromised


	4. In Which A Plan Is Compromised

_Notes: _This story has taken on a life of its own. It began as a simple oneshot scrawled in my storybook, and then I thought 'mehh, I can post this in two parts and won't have to edit the whole thing so quickly.' Then the best place to cut off the first part made it awfully short, so I thought 'maybe three or four parts would be better.' Every time I edit these things, they wind up twice as long and full of ridiculous background notes involving Pevensie-sibling-goofiness. (This silly chapter was half a page handwritten, two pages on first typing/edit, and then four after the second edit.) It doesn't help that every time I return to it I think, 'oh, I shall add one more chapter with this,' or 'I'd really like to expand this part into this.' I think when it is finished it will be only seven chapters, but who knows? Long and short: I do not know how it grew to this size, but I am enjoying it immensely. I think I am slightly addicted to Ed&Su interaction now.

* * *

_Last Time: "Susan," he [Edmund] said, reproof and admiration mingled in his tone, "what is the meaning of this?"_

**4. In Which A Plan Is Compromised**

"Give it back!" Susan ordered, trying to make her voice as dangerously sharp as possible.

"_Giron – hold 'till fourth day of the week, when trade matters have been settled. Flatter into spending all his time at training grounds and use the 'I Am Too Gentle To Bear Arms' ploy. Say he really should go visit the court at Galma and write me sometime," _Edmund read aloud with vicious glee. "Brilliant! Galma is every single nobleman's nightmare—hounds of eligible young women with perfumed handkerchiefs and _notions_ at the ready—and the mothers, ah! The mothers. The worst fiends of the lot—so you shall trick this poor man into Galma—ha ha! This is loads better than the sugar-in-the-soup trick Pete and I used on the idiot's cousin last week."

"Wait, sugar in the soup?!" Susan cried, feeling very much alarmed, but Edmund continued reading.

"_Prince Elmar – keep in library for two weeks (post-alliance agreement is settled); perhaps use the "all those big books—how do you do it?" line (i.e. feign stupidity). Pack off to Lone Islands; I hear the Governor there has a suitably insipid daughter._ By gum, Su, who would have _thought_?"

"Give it _back_, Edmund!" Susan repeated nervously, for Edmund was looking at her with a sort of hero-struck expression. In this dazed state, he very nearly obeyed, but pulled his hand back at the last moment. "Half a moment," he said slowly ('slowly' as in, 'I am going to enjoy this,' not as a means of understanding something better). "Do you mean to tell me that you're calculating how long it will take to use your suitors to get whatever we want out of these countries while deluding the poor blighters into thinking that you're seriously considering them—that you're planning to crush their hearts without them knowing it and, before they can say "will you?", packing them off to Galma and other places full of rabid, eligible young women?"

"No," Susan countered, sounding very much annoyed, "because first of all I didn't _mean_ to tell you _anything_—_you_ took the parchment away _without_ my consent, thank you very much. Anyway, it isn't like that at all. It's not _manipulating_, it's—it's _creative diplomacy._" (Some of you may wonder if Susan didn't really think this after all, but I highly doubt that is the case. The effusion of italics in her speech usually signified that she was arguing for something she didn't really believe; I take that to be true here as well.)

"Blimey," Edmund said, apparently not paying very much attention to Susan's excuses (or _reasoning_, as she liked to call it).

"We're not supposed to talk like that, Ed," Susan reprimanded sternly. She was mostly frustrated because he hadn't heard any of her excuses and to repeat them would make them sound false, which they probably were. "Now give me the—"

"I mean, _blimey!_" It was as if words had escaped Edmund. Susan temporarily waved the proverbial white flag on the language issue and decided to address the bigger issue at hand.

"That's very nice, Edmund. Don't you have somewhere you're supposed to be right now—Kingly duties such as going on hunts, waging war on various and sundry foreign countries, ruling with justice and benevolence? Have you forgotten about all that?"

"No—but—I mean—"

"If you say _blimey_ one more time, I promise it will not be well with you_,_" Susan warned, mentally throwing down the white flag and stomping it into a figurative pile of mud.

"That's just it! Any amount of time ago, I might not have taken you seriously, but _now_—now I believe you might just find a way to keep that vow. My sister!" He looked very close to picking her up and twirling her 'round and 'round. Susan took a step backwards. "One minute, you're all—_I'm the Gentle Queen and a young, inexperienced one at that_—and the net moment you're this…brilliant, clever, _conniving_ thing with a plan cold enough to give Jadis herself goosebumps!"

"I'm a _girl_, not a _thing_," Susan retorted coldly. "And don't talk so about Jadis. She wasn't anything to fun about." (She secretly wanted to laugh and was mostly annoyed that she couldn't for the sake of argument.)

"By gum, I think the temperature dropped a few degrees when you said that," Edmund chortled, rubbing his hands together. "We were so worried—we wondered, can she handle this? I mean, there we were, thinking we might need to pull one of our famous supportive-sibling acts and somehow get the old gel out of this mess." (Susan made a noise of protest here. She did _not_ appreciate being referred to as 'old gel.' It reminded her of one of the professors at school who kept brandy in a drawer in his desk while everybody pretended he didn't.) "But before we can so much as say 'S.O.S.'—Save Our Susan, came up with that myself—she comes up with a Plan! A genius, brutal, heartless, brilliant Plan to end all Plans_!" _If Edmund had known how to jig, he would have broken out in one at this moment, so perhaps it is best that he never learned.

"Edmund. _Parchment._" Susan said sharply, but her brother shook his head.

"Later, Su," he said, executing a funny sort of dance backwards toward the door. Apparently his lack of training in jigs did not make much difference after all. "Peter's going to _love_ seeing this!"

"EDMUND!" She shouted, abandoning all semblance of reserve and lunging for him as he turned and practically tore the door off its hinges in what they called the HERE. (Highly Effective Retreat of Edmund—it took place so many times that it was given a codename. If they ever wanted to tell each other that Edmund had bolted at the mention of the name of whomever they were entertaining that day and was Not To Be Seen without risking offense of anyone, they would say casually "Where's Edmund? Oh, probably wandering about…here and there, you know." And it was considered so useful that if you ever find any of the scribes' notes from Histories of the Golden Age of Narnia (and I don't mean the revised ones they teach in schools; I mean the sort that can only be found in obscure libraries full of dust and ancient paper) you will probably find it referred to at least half a dozen times in conjunction with the visits of various squinty-eyed daughters of noblemen and scheming peddlars.) "EDMUND, YOU ROTTEN LITTLE—!" She froze, sentence half-finished.

Someone—a courtier?—from another country (and she was quite sure they were on the verge of offering marriage) was standing just outside her door. He probably hadn't heard much before the "you rotten little" bit, but just to be safe she offered him one of her dazzling 'please forget that just happened' smiles (guaranteed to succeed). He closed his gaping mouth and half-staggered, half-ran back down the corridor. Let us assume it was out of embarrassment and awe at the Queen's beauty and not fear at her suddenly revealed temper.

Once the hapless courtier had disappeared, Susan stepped serenely out her door and peered up and down the corridor, but Edmund was gone. Stupid courtier. Stupid blighter. Stupid Plan.

Sighing, she flung her arms out resignedly in a gesture of defeat. The parchment didn't matter that much—she'd spent so much time writing it that she could practically recite its contents. Peter and Lucy would probably be a little shocked, but then Edmund might have just been rubbing her the wrong way and the others might never know (she did not really believe this…but it was a nice reassurance all the same).

Just as she had convinced herself that all was well and on schedule, someone cleared his throat from outside her door: one of the Dogs who served in the court.

"Your majesty," he said, wheezing just a little (as Dogs are wont to do, for they are easily excited and love to please, thus prone to dashing off as quickly as they can whenever given a task or a message to bear). "Your presence is—_wheeze—_requested in the _–wheeze—_south sunroom."

"Why, whatever for?" Susan cried, then noting the distress on the Dog's face she amended herself. "Thank you for the message, good Dog—Emir, is it not? I was merely wondering—er—the _southern_ sunroom?" That was where she usually saw suitors, but none save her immediate family knew the significance of calling it 'southern'. "Has Queen Lucy sent for me, then?"

"No, my lady." Emir, who had now begun to catch his breath again, gave a much quieter _wheeze_ and continued: "A young man—a nobleman, I think—probably one of those obnoxious suitors." Belatedly he realized what he had let slip. "I'm sorry, my lady!" he said, his tail sinking to slightly between his legs. "I've put my foot-paw in it, haven't I?" And he began to wheeze more heavily, probably from panic that he had offended his Queen.

Susan's mouth twitched. Even the Talking Beasts were sensing the nuisance! She still had a hard time thinking of them all as People sometimes, although it was not from want of trying, and it still amused her sometimes when they read emotions or reacted to things in very human ways and yet somehow still retained their…well, as Emir kept his doggy-ness and blurted out his opinion of the suitors.

Then it hit her. "A suitor, Emir? Are you certain?"

"Yes, my lady," Emir said. _Wheeze._ "And he asked specifically for you, without delay. I'll tell him that you're coming, shall I? I shall!" With a very doggish _snuff!_ he bounded away.

Susan turned back to her empty room, her heart sinking slowly with dread. No one was supposed to arrive today, and certainly not a nameless suitor about whom she had no sort of safeguard, no fixed means of dealing with the idiot to maintain sanity, no time period ("just one week!" or "just two weeks!") to bolster her strength.

She didn't have the parchment. It was somewhere far away—tucked into the spot in the wall behind Edmund's bed that he thought no one knew about—or perhaps still clutched in his blasted fingers—or spread out on Peter's desk with the both of them poring over it. Yet Susan, while she perhaps could not imagine everything as clearly as she had thought, knew one thing for certain: it had said nothing about random suitors showing up at random times and offering no background information.

Only one thing was certain in this ambiguous situation:

...this was _not_ part of The Plan.

* * *

_Next chapter: _In Which A Plan Is Extemporised


End file.
